So here it is. The end of the second season of The Apprentice. And I have just one question for those of you reading this. Why? Seriously, why are you reading this? Wasn’t watching this debacle once enough punishment? I mean we’re talking about the worst 3 hours of television since the entire run of Forever Eden here. Why would anyone want to relive it? And yet here you are. Me? I have to be here. My fate was sealed months ago when I promised Webby and AyaK that I’d chronicle the finale episode. But you? You have choices. And so I’m only gonna say this once, and then you pain freaks get what you get: Turn. Back. Now. Don’t say I didn’t warn you…

Still here? You, my friend are a brave soul. Now, I’m a brave soul too, but I’m not stoopid. And just like Maverick needed Goose, I need a wingman. And no, I don’t mean in some Light-Beer-Commercial-Drunken-Frat-Boy-Picking-Up-Hoochie-Mamas-at-Last-Call way. I’m talking about a true wingman. I’m talking about someone who will take anti-aircraft fire for you so you can complete your mission. I have enlisted the help of summary writer extraordinaire Landru to provide some much needed analysis to help us all swallow this jagged little pill. So without further ado, or tortured metaphors, let me introduce you to the man willing to die in a fiery wreck so you can read about a man named Donald and the fate of the two remaining DAWs seeking entry into his Nouveau Riche Kingdom, as seen through the eyes of a cast of a thousand people whose names and opinions you’ll forget by this time tomorrow.

Landru, what are we in for in this, the last 3 hours of The Donald’s hideousness that is/was The Apprentice, Season 2?

Thanks, mah homie. What I think we’ll see tonight is a lot of scintillating, reality-based debate, strongly resembling a real-world business-type environment, with Mr. Donald Trump making his final hiring decision based on objective factors with criteria fairly applied to these two outstanding candidates.

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Yeah, okay, you busted me. What we’ll see tonight is a stinking pile of organic waste, much of it classified as biohazardous. No fewer than two dozen egos will be on parade here, with plumage displays unmatched in normal daily life. The Human Hairpie made up his mind during auditions that he was going to hire soulless Sturmbahnfuhrer Kelly Perdew, because it was obvious even then that Kelly met his requirements, namely a shiny, progressively apple-polished resume, a complete lack of wit or imagination, a penchant for defecating all over teammates and competitors, and a willingness to submit to unimaginable forms of degradation in the quest to deeply and lovingly kiss Donald Trump’s a$$. I’d also expect a major effort to blacken the reputation of the moderately robotic but otherwise reasonably inoffensive Jennifer Massey, a hypercompetent person who has the misfortune of possessing two X chromosomes and a modicum of the kind of relentlessness that it obviously requires to emerge from the pack of barking snakes that casts a season of this once-entertaining program. Along the way, we’ll see plenty o’ ordinary sniping, b!tching, whining, whinging, mewling, and puking, along with insufferable cattiness, snarky hypocrisy, and no small amount of whorish obeisance from the unbroken ranks of febrile sycophants who will populate this three unendurable hours of the dregs of American television.

Sturmbahnfuhrer? Isn’t that like the German equivalent of Mr. Goodwrench? Anyway, thanks for those, uhm, splenetic opening thoughts. I can see that we’ve already set the expectations bar exceedingly low for what’s about to unfold. But before we get to that, EPMB needs to remind us what has brought us to this moment. So, despite the fact that we’d all like to forget the previous 3 months, he’s contractually obligated to shove it down our throats in a 10-minute montage. And so, in ascending order of importance, here’s the Tale of the Loozers…

1) Rob (a.k.a. “Redshirt”) – Heh, Rob. Remember him? Rob was an amorphous slab of meat—a blob, if you will. Frankly, I think you give him too much credit.

2) Bradford…Oh Bradford, how do we sum up your Apprentice experience? You were…Fester, the phrase you’re looking for is “puckishly stupid”. Why yes, yes it is.

3) Stacie J. as in “Just Plain Schizoid”. And I mean that in only the least racially offensive way. She also had really unfortunate hair. Not sure if the 2 are connected.

8) Wow, how would you describe Elizabeth’s not-so-graceful exit? You mean how she was punched into submission by yowling rabid cats? Yeah, something like that.

9) Raj wasn’t very good at either coming on to the ladies (whether they be famous, semi-famous, or “hey, aren’t you…” famous) or home improvement. Sort of a Tim Allen in a bowtie.

10) Fes, Chris had a New York accent that grated on The Trump’s nerves. That, and he couldn’t lead his way out of a paper bag.

11) Maria

12) and Wes were so useless, each in their own special (short-bus) way, that The Trump simulcanned them,

13) Andy is not only a disgrace to his name, he’s prone to being shouted down by b!tchy women,

14) And Ivana is simply an ignorant whore.

Oops, sorry. Kind of took over your summary there for a second.

‘Sall right. You were on a roll.

Well, that pretty much brings us up to last week, where, after a round of interviews conducted by The Donald’s closest four friends needing the kind of visibility only fifteen minutes of exposure on a sagging network can provide, Kevin was fired, presumably because he’s too educated (maybe a mind isn’t such a terrible thing to waste, after all) and Sandy was let go because, well, they thought she lacked the ability to comprehend the complexities of BIG BUSINESS, which, as Landru will tell you, is code for “Papa don’t want no dim-witted and mouthy possessors of neither the relevant experience nor any qualities save playing ring-around-the-collar with a certain portion of His anatomy making any kind of decisions that might, oh I don’t know, bankrupt one of Papa’s holding companies”. (And yes, for those of you scoring at home, that was one sentence. My public high school English teacher is somewhere drowning her failure with a bottle of mescal and a migrant worker named Julio. At least she was at 4 o’clock this morning when I dreamt it.)

So, high and low IQ scores being dropped, like it's an intellectual figure skating competition, final tasks were assigned. Jen was given the job of managing a charity basketball event in Noo Joisey (Shouts to TJ. Whaddup, dawg?), emceed by Chris Webber. (Yes, that Chris Webber. The phantom-time-out-callin’, substance-abuse-rehabilitatin’, felon-associatin’, former member of Les Boulez-turned-cow-town-dissin’, selfish, ball whore. Y’know, just the sort of fella David Stern likes to have pimping his league. I guess Ron Artest was too busy napping after a tough recording session.) Kelly was assigned to manage a charity polo match, which means sucking up to millionaires—which is exactly what he’s been doing since he crossed our collective (and extremely tired) consciousness.